


Eddie Kaspbrak Gets The Guy

by milkday



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Internalized Biphobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, minor spoilers for the book, this is following book canon, this is my first fic for IT so please... be gentle...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-12-17 02:16:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11841870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milkday/pseuds/milkday
Summary: Summer, 1960Eddie Kaspbrak and Richie Tozier both have a secret. Will this secret bring them together or will it cause an irreparable rift in their friendship?





	1. A Clandestine Meeting

_“Meet me at the Barrens at 5pm.”_ That was all the note (neatly taped to Richie Tozier’s locker) said. No mention of who it was from but that was unnecessary. The handwriting, which had ironically always reminded Richie of a doctor’s scrawl, could have only belonged to Eddie Kaspbrak. That left one question unanswered though, and that was _why_? Why would Eddie want to see him on his last day in Derry when they hadn’t talked properly for months?

As he mulled this over, the bell signalling the end of school rang. He almost didn’t hear it at first – it wasn’t until some eighth grader shoved into him, knocking his books to the floor, that he snapped back to reality. “Hey! Come back here, asshole!”

There was no reply. The eighth grader had disappeared into the crowd and Richie was left bracing himself against his locker door to avoid being crushed. At least, he thought to himself, he didn’t have to look out for Henry Bowers any more. That was a blessing.

And, speaking of a blessing, there was Eddie across the hall. He was slouched against the water fountain (not touching it – it was a breeding ground for germs) clutching his aspirator in one hand and his bag in the other. The usual worried expression was plastered across his face and Richie felt a swell of affection. “EDS! EDDIE!”

Eddie looked up, startled. He was slightly red (well, it was hot, Richie reasoned to himself) and he clutched his aspirator tighter, as if dropping it meant certain death. “DON’T CALL ME EDS, RICHIE! YOU KNOW I DON’T LIKE THAT!”

“SORRY!”

But Eddie was already gone. Richie didn’t blame Eddie for not talking to him. It had been two years since It but he got the uneasy feeling It would never truly leave. He’d wake up in a cold sweat some nights, heart racing as he relived the events of summer 1958. The funny thing was, Richie supposed, the shared trauma was what both united and disbanded the Losers Club. How could you stand to look at one another when what you were really seeing was It?

* * *

Waiting for 5pm was torturous. Eddie regretted the note as soon as he’d seen Richie in the halls (he was grinning! was that a sign?) and he’d regretted it even more on the walk home.

The graffiti on the wall was what really did it. “DERRY FAGGOTS MUST DIE” it proclaimed, in bright red paint. Eddie’s chest tightened and his pulse began to race. He’d never considered the fact he was one of Them – the queers and fags that everybody seemed to hate so much – and the thought of it terrified him beyond belief. There had to be something wrong with him. Normal boys didn’t get crushes on other boys. Even if Richie was funny and cute and – what was he _thinking_? It was wrong and nasty and disgusting.

Still, he couldn’t leave Richie waiting at the Barrens. He’d go along and pretend everything was normal – throw in some talk about flirting with Bev or someone – and give him a decent goodbye. It was simple, really. No confessions about crushes, no writing haikus about how wonderfully Richie’s glasses sparkled in the sunlight or how terrible but endearing his Voices were, and absolutely no crying.

* * *

 As Eddie was coming face-to-face with the idea of Sexuality, so was Richie.

He’d been running the contents of the note over and over in his head as he packed. _Meet me at the Barrens at 5pm_. What did it mean (aside from the obvious)? Was it just a goodbye? The thought of just a goodbye – nothing more than that, just a “well it’s been nice knowing ya!” – filled him with inexplicable disappointment. To put it plainly, he liked Eddie. He liked Eddie the way Ben liked Bev. The way Bill liked Bev. The way that pretty much everyone in the Losers Club (except maybe Mike, who was too busy reading, and Stan, who seemed to be more interested in grackles than girls) liked Bev. That wasn’t much of a problem. The problem was – he liked girls too. And as far as Richie Tozier knew, that wasn’t a thing that happened. You liked one or the other, no half-measures. He could deal with liking boys (if only because he knew that Henry Bowers used to be against it, and if you were something the old Bowers disliked then it meant you were pretty good) but girls and boys? That was a little too much.

He’d briefly contemplated not going to the Barrens to save himself the disappointment, but he didn’t want to hurt Eddie’s feelings. The way he saw it, if he and Eds had a couple of chucks on his last day in Derry (even if it didn’t end as romantically as he was hoping) then it would still make for a decent send-off.

* * *

 Eddie’s second regret of the day was not choosing a better place to meet. The Barrens was _such_ a good place to go to say goodbye to one of your closest friends (so close, Eddie thought bitterly, that he’d made the stupid choice of ignoring him because of his own messed up feelings). Try and forget the fact that you’re standing above the burial place of most of Its victims, Eds! Try and forget the fact that if you kiss Richie (and you won’t because that’s sinful) you’ll be kissing Richie _riiiight_ above where Victor Criss and Belch Huggins died horrifically!

He’d arrived early, before he lost his nerve. His mother had been against him going out – she called Richie Tozier a “no good motormouth who’ll only corrupt you, Eddie!” Eddie thought it was a bit late to be corrupted by him, if he was leaving tomorrow, but he’d realised his mom wasn’t the most logical lady. It was only after he’d packed his bag with five types of multivitamins, his antihistamines, his aspirator, his spare aspirator, the names and addresses of all the medical practitioners in a five-mile radius, and promised to wear four layers (vest, shirt, overshirt, coat) to prevent flu and/or pneumonia (never mind the fact it was the summer) that she even considered letting him go out.

“Eds!” Eddie turned, red in the face (a 2-in-1 combo of blush and the fact he was overheating), and tried to remain composed.

“You’re early, Richie.”

“You’re early too, Eds!” Richie pushed his coke-bottle glasses up his nose and grinned lopsidedly. “Anyway, what’s this about?”

Eddie sat down, trying not to think about all the germs and diseases festering in the grass. He rummaged through his bag for his aspirator and clutched in one white-knuckled hand. “I have a confession to make.” And there was Regret #3 for Eddie Kaspbrak.

“A confession, huh?” Richie remained standing, hands in pockets, staring out over at the Kenduskeag. “You confessing your undying love for me or something?”

Eddie’s chest tightened. He barely managed to say “Beep-beep, Richie!” before his asthma _(no, not asthma!)_ took over. His vision blurred and it was as if he’d forgotten how to breathe. He felt as if he was dying and he couldn’t reach his aspirator and-

And there was Richie, gently tugging Eddie’s coat off to make it easier for him to breathe. There was Richie, passing him his aspirator. There was Richie reassuring him. Slowly the world came back into focus. “I’m so goddamn sorry, Eds,” Richie was saying, although to Eddie it felt somewhat faraway. He was too focused on the fact Richie’s arm was around his shoulder. “I should learn to keep my trap shut.”

“No, it’s- it’s okay.” Eddie tried for a smile. “I have something to say to you. You can say yes, or you can say no, and you can leave after I’ve said it, or you can stay. But _please_ ,” Eddie’s voice dropped to a whisper and he looked away, “if you say no, don’t tell anyone what I said. Okay?”

“Okay. Gotcha, old pal.”

“Richie, I… I think I’m in love with you.”


	2. Something Unexpected

There was no reply. Of _course_ there was no reply. He’d screwed up – he _was_ screwed up. “I should – I should go. I’m so sorry.”

Richie’s arm didn’t move from around his shoulder. Eddie didn’t know if that was a good thing or a bad thing. What if Richie was going to do something? Richie wouldn’t hurt his friends, Eddie knew that, but – but Eddie wasn’t a friend anymore. He was screwed in the head, he was a creep, he was one of Them.

“Eds,” Richie’s tone was serious. No Voices, no bravado, just plain old Richie Tozier (wonderful _wonderful_ Richie Tozier). “D’you mean that?”

Eddie nodded, looking down at his sneakers so Richie wouldn’t see the tears rolling down his cheeks. “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m so sorry.”

“Look at me, Eds.” Richie didn’t know what the protocol was when your best friend confessed his love for you and then broke down crying but he was trying his best. “Look at me.”

Eddie didn’t look. He was too afraid to, in case he caught sight of the loathing on Richie’s face. “I’m so sorry.”

“Eds, if you say sorry one more time I _will_ drown myself in the Kenduskeag. Got me?”

“What? You’re – you’re not mad? You’re not disgusted? You don’t want me to die or anything?”

Richie turned to face Eddie and flashed a slightly manic grin. “No. Y’know why, Eds?”

“Why?”

“Because, old chum, I am truly, madly, _deeply_ in love with you.”

Eddie sniffed and clutched his aspirator. “If this is a joke – if you’re making fun of me, Richie Tozier, this is too far.”

Richie raised his eyebrows. “Why would I be joking?”

“Because – because you have a crush on Bev!”

“I thought _you_ had a crush on Bev?”

“She’s pretty, I guess. I mean, she has eyes and… hair and… y’know. Legs where they should be.”

Richie doubled over laughing. “Eddie Kaspbrak Does It Again!” he said, in his radio host Voice. “His rare sense of humour has just resurfaced and boy oh boy! What a corker of a joke that was! Legs where they should be!” He looked to Eddie like if he kept laughing any more he’d need to use an aspirator himself.

Eddie sniffed and wiped his eyes with his handkerchief. “Are we… official now?”

“We’re officially cracked in the head, Eds! That’s what!” Richie flashed a smile and knitted his fingers between Eddie’s.

“Beep beep, Richie. You know what I meant.” He sighed, and rested his head on Richie’s shoulder.

“There’s something we could do to make it official.” Richie’s eyes had that dangerous gleam that Eddie knew too well. 

“If it’s slicing our palms open again, count me out.” He was only half-joking. After IT, nothing would surprise him.

“Eddie, Eddie, Edster. This idea is way better. It’s a Richie Tozier certified Good Idea. You ready to hear it?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be, Trashmouth.”

Richie snorted. “Yeah, I don’t think that’s the best nickname to give me when I’m just about to kiss you.”

“ _Kiss_ me? You’re going to – kissing, as in putting your mouth on my mouth?”

“That’s the plan, man!”

Eddie’s inner Sonia Kaspbrak was going full-force. “ _Eddie!”_ it was saying. _“Kissing girls leads to mouth herpes! Meningitis! Chlamydia! Leprosy! Cancer! Death!”_ It was a blessing then, he thought, that he wasn’t going to be kissing any girls for the foreseeable future. He gripped Richie’s hand tighter and turned so he was gazing up into Richie’s eyes. “You might want to take your glasses off. I think they’d be hitting me in the face otherwise.”

Richie took his glasses off and set them on the grass. Eddie had never seen him without them before, and he’d never realised just how beautiful his eyes were. If he was more poetic like Ben he’d be writing a haiku about them for sure. He took a deep breath _(it’s now or never)_ and rested his hands on Richie’s shoulders.

Richie leaned in and their lips met.

To Richie, Eddie tasted like a medicine cabinet. That didn’t surprise him in the least (but he did wonder if Eddie’s mom had made up some bullshit health scare to try and get him to not kiss anyone. It seemed exactly the kind of thing she _would_ do).

To Eddie, Richie tasted like... mouth. He was trying not to think of where Richie's mouth had been (he hoped fervently that Richie had brushed his teeth) and cursed his mother for making him such a germaphobe.

The kiss felt like it lasted forever. It felt good. It felt _really_ good. It felt like the rush you get after you tell a good joke and everyone’s laughing with you not at you, it felt like the relief you feel after avoiding the school bully, it felt like the sunshine rippling over the Kenduskeag. But, like all good things, it came to an end sooner than Eddie would’ve liked.

“It’s getting late, Eds.” Richie wiped his mouth (Eddie’s heart broke a little) and looked at his watch. “I wish to God I could stay here with you forever, y’know.”

Eddie passed him his glasses and looked out over the Barrens. He shuddered a little just thinking about what lay beneath their feet. “Staying in Derry would be a little like setting up camp in the mouth of Hell, don’t you think?”

“You could take an extended vacation every twenty-seven years! It wouldn’t be _so_ bad, really.” The bravado was back, but there was an edge to it. Eddie could easily see through it – of course Richie was glad to be getting out of town, away from teenage werewolves, dead bullies rotting in unused sewers, and clowns adorned with orange pom-poms. He was trying to spare Eddie’s feeling. “I’ll write, I swear.”

“We could do a blood oath on that, although I think Stan would need to be here for that.” Eddie attempted a smile. “I have a parting gift for you, anyway.” He rummaged in his backpack and pulled out his spare aspirator. “D’you have a pocket knife?”

Richie nodded and passed him an old Swiss Army knife. Eddie took it and slowly, gently, carefully carved “EDS” and a small heart into the brittle moulded plastic. “It’s for you, Richie.”

“Won’t you need it? What if you lose your other one and have an asthma attack? You’ll – you’ll die then, won’t you?”

Eddie just smiled gently. “I’ll be okay, I promise. Keep that safe – it’ll remind you of me, in case you ever forget.”

“How could I forget you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> stay tuned, folks! 
> 
> thank you for the kudos and good comments so far!! it really means a lot to me :')


	3. Epilogue Part I (or Eddie Kaspbrak's Reluctant Proposal)

Summer, 1977

“ _EDDIE! HURRY UP ALREADY!”_

Eddie sighed inwardly. Today was supposed to be one of the happiest days of his life. He was going to propose to Myra and she was going to say yes and they’d live a suburban happily-ever-after with two children and a dog. Everyone had always said what a good pair they made and if everyone else was happy, why couldn’t he be? What was wrong with him?

_“EDDIE!”_

He could feel the beginnings of a migraine coming on _._ “I’M _COMING!_ GIVE ME _FIVE MINUTES_!”

“ _EDDIE! YOU DON’T NEED TO SHOUT AT ME!”_

He heaved another deep sigh and reached for the ring box in his pocket. It wasn’t in his pocket. Of _course_ it wasn’t in his pocket. Things couldn’t just go to plan, could they? Life just couldn’t be goddamn simple for poor old Eddie Kaspbrak, could it?

Eddie thought back to where he’d last had it. He’d been trying to shave (and work up the courage to even _think_ of proposing) when Myra yelled for him to come and take his vitamins. That was not a battle he was willing to fight – he conceded to Myra on some things lest she start crying – so he went. After that, he’d started getting dressed and-

The closet. He’d put the ring in the closet and then gotten distracted by something and here he was, almost late to an overly expensive dinner reservation. For a moment, he considered leaving it there. Proposing to Myra would be- it’d be _wrong_ but it’d be safe. Nobody would know that he was… one of Them. Nobody would know and it would be easy to pretend to be happy. God knows he’d done _that_ enough.

He opened the closet door and began to sift through the stacks of papers and half-empty boxes of medication. The ring box didn’t take long to find. It was in the middle of the shelf, surrounded by junk, atop a box that gave him the feeling of deja-vu. The box, wrapped neatly in faded newspaper, had nothing indicating its contents except a peeling label which said (in Eddie’s own neat handwriting) _“Letters from R.”_

“EDDIE, I’M WAITING IN THE CAR!”

“That’s nice, dear.” He was too transfixed on the box to offer a proper reply. It seemed familiar – he vaguely recalled waiting by the mailbox for letters that came less and less frequently, but it felt more like a dream than a memory. The ring lay forgotten as he carefully set the box on his bed, raising a cloud of dust in the process.

He felt his throat close and reached for his aspirator. Another fuzzy memory wormed its way into his brain – he was having an asthma attack and someone on a bike had saved him. But who? When? It didn’t matter, he supposed. It was probably just a dream or something he’d seen on TV. Eddie shrugged it off as his breathing evened out and his vision cleared. The box was laying there, exactly where he’d left it, but it was slightly open. Did he open it? He didn’t _remember_ opening it but weird closet boxes that seemingly appeared from nowhere don’t just open themselves. That would be weird.

Eddie sat down and opened the box. Nothing happened. He wasn’t sure what he expected from a Mystery Closet Box but quite frankly this was underwhelming. The label on the box _was_ correct though. There were indeed letters and postcards in the box, all written in spidery handwriting, and all signed with _Love, R._ He picked the first one up off the pile – a postcard of some town in California (or that’s what the caption said – “ _Wish you were here! Sending love from sunny California!”)_

“Dearest darling Eds,” he read aloud, ignoring the car horn blaring from outside. “Missing you & your constant asthma attacks! That was a joke, in case you couldn’t tell. You always were deficient in Vitamin Sense-of-Humour (no matter how many pills your mom made you take!) Keep up the chucks! Love, R!”

Who was R? His thoughts tumbled in his head like a shirt in the dryer. R stood for Rachel, Rose, Ruby…. Richie? The name felt familiar but he couldn’t place it. He’d never known a Richie in his life aside from some kid on the track team at high school – now _he_ was an asshole – but the name felt as familiar as Myra’s. _Could just be the power of suggestion_ , Eddie thought. There’d been a feature in some magazine or other about that the other week – if you think something and believe something enough, it’ll become real to you. _Like asthma, perhaps._

He drove that thought straight out of his head – he wasn’t willing to even _consider_ the implications of not being asthmatic, although he’d realised it as a teen when he asked the pharmacist about his asthma medicine, out of curiosity. “What medicine?” she’d said. “This is just water and a dash of camphor, you know.”

“No,” Eddie had said as he’d reached for his aspirator, fighting off the feeling that his lungs were collapsing and that he would almost certainly die.

“Yes,” she’d replied. “Sorry you had to find out like this, kid. Want a lollipop?”

The notion that his mother had manufactured his problems for him was too much to bear, even at 31 years old. He felt another attack coming on but pushed it down – not here, not now – and forced himself to focus on the box.

The next postcard wasn’t a postcard, as such. It was a photo of a lanky looking teen boy with oversized coke-bottle glasses ( _Jesus,_ Eddie thought, _how blind was this kid?_ ) and a Hawaiian shirt. He was grinning lopsidedly at the camera and making a heart shape with his hands. The writing on the back simply said, “ _All my love, Eddie Spaghetti.”_

Dear God. A _boy._ Past Eddie had, apparently, been in love with a boy. A _boy!_ Why didn’t he remember it? _Was_ it love? It could be… platonic. Yes, that had to be it. Platonic love for a boy so… so insignificant he obviously didn’t care enough to remember. Of course. The thought that Eddie Kaspbrak – respectable member of society, Eddie Kaspbrak – could have been in love with a _boy_ was so ridiculous it simply didn’t make sense to even consider. Except, deep down, he knew it wasn’t impossible.

The final postcard had a picture of a clown on the front. It was an innocuous looking clown, at first glance, but when you looked closer you saw the maddened look in its eyes (‘ _Its’? Why ‘Its’? Why not ‘his’?)_ and the rusty red stain on the front of its smock, it became unnerving. The writing on the back unnerved Eddie even more so.

_“Reminded me of you, whoever you are. Sincerely, Richie.”_

The car horn beeped again and Eddie made sure the ring-box was snug in his pocket before shoving the letters back in the box and the box back in the closet. He made a mental reminder to look at it again when he arrived home.

(He didn’t look again. After drinking late into the night after a “successful” proposal, he’d forgotten the box even existed. And wasn’t that just for the best?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i thought this fic was gonna be shorter but apparently not!! stay tuned, dear readers, and thanks for all the kudos and wonderful comments!


	4. Epilogue Part II (or A One Night Stand)

“Mornin’, Richie!”

Richie rolled over with one foot still firmly in dreamland. He was _not_ a morning person. Some days, he felt as if he was barely a person at all (mostly when he’d partied so hard he didn’t remember the week before, let alone the _night_ before).

“I said _morning!”_

“Whuh?” He cracked one eye open. There was a girl - a good looking one, well done Last Night’s Richie! – standing at the foot of his bed. She was grinning at him and holding something in her hand. To him, sans contact lenses (he’d forsaken the godawful coke-bottle glasses long ago), it looked like a big brown lump. He didn’t recall purchasing any big brown lumps lately, but when you live the party life, who _knows_ what you do drunk.

“Didn’t know you were asthmatic, champ,” the girl ( _what a crappy one-night stand I am_ , _not remembering her name!_ ) said. “I sure am glad you didn’t just-“she mimed seizing up and dying, “last night. What a way to go _that’d_ be!”

“I’m… not asthmatic.” Richie sat up, trying to ignore the increasingly familiar feeling of heartache washing over him. The heartache, incidentally, that had begun him on his path of one-night stands and broken hearts (but never his – he felt, somehow, his had been broken a long time ago).

The girl tossed the aspirator ( _“My aspirator! I can’t breathe, Richie!”)_ up in the air. Richie dived to catch it, much to her amusement. “Says Eds on it,” she laughed. “Eds? That your nickname?”

“No.” Richie said, clutching the aspirator in one white-knuckled hand. “Shouldn’t you be going?” He felt something tugging at his memory. He wished, frankly, that it’d stop tugging. The past is the past is the past and all that crap.

“Jeez, do I not even get a shirt at the end of it? Y’know – _I slept with Richie Tozier and all I got was this lousy t-shirt?”_

Richie laughed mirthlessly. “If I did that, babe, then everyone in this damn city would have one. Not to be rude but I have things – and people – to do, so… uh….”

“Yeah, I get it. You’re one of those guys – one ride and then you’re through. Well, give the next gal my regards!”

With that, the girl flounced out and Richie was left with an ancient aspirator, a killer hangover, and an uneasy feeling that he was forgetting something very important. Whatever it was, though, it could wait. He had sleep to catch up with.

(and he didn’t remember until it was too late too late too late until he was staring into the late eddie kaspbrak’s glassy eyes on that fateful day in 1985 deep below derry in the sewers. and wasn’t it _funny_ how life went?)


	5. The End (or This Isn't Even A Real Chapter)

_“Sometimes I get to thinkin' 'bout days gone by_

_And I start cryin' every time_

_What I wouldn't give if I could just relive_

_One day with those old friends of mine_

_No one ever planned it, but every day at four_

_We would get together at the corner candy store_

_We just ignore the sign no dancing allowed_

_Oh wo yeah, how I miss the old crowd”  
 _

_-_ The Old Crowd, Lesley Gore

* * *

_“And in the end_

_I'd do it all again_

_I think you're my best friend_

_Don't you know that the kids aren't all, kids aren't alright_

_I'll be yours_

_When it rains it pours_

_Stay thirsty like before_

_Don't you know that the kids aren't all, kids aren't alright”_

 

\- The Kids Aren’t Alright, Fall Out Boy

 

* * *

thanks for reading! if you have any constructive criticism feel free to leave a comment or drop me an ask at eddiekaspbraksinhaler.tumblr.com! i'm also open to fic requests!

 


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